March 18, 2016
Some months later, I sat on the bridge over the Kishwaukee River again. It was the end of summer. Cicadas buzzed. The sky was a bit overcast.
I had been creating pieces for Ceremonies at random. A sentence, a paragraph, a page, a scene, a short story. I felt no leading to use a traditional structure. No beginning, middle and end. Pieces of all kinds accumulated.
Swinging my legs over the river, I started writing a list of observations about a young girl I named Valentine. Then I wrote a description of her.